#1 Just Saying Hi
My roommate has a face on.
My roommate, lets call her C, does this face regularly. Every time she encounters the washing machine, for example. I would describe it as similar to the expression on a dogs face when playing fetch and you've feigned throwing the ball; head cocked slightly to one side, ears raised, confused and suspicious eyes. I think this over while she's giving me this face.
We are sat opposite each other on Table 1, folding napkins. We're both waitresses at a family restaurant; think Wetherspoons without the budget prices, it's closing time and we're working through our sidework in a comfortable silence. The rush of caffeine, stress and demanding customers is dying down and through the therapeutic rhythm of menial closing tasks I started to think, out loud. Words rolling out of my mouth as smooth and freely as raindrops down a window, about the 9-5's and 5-9's and this place and this life. About cold mornings and payslips and tip-outs. Counting cash like we're counting the years of our existence, while being tired all the time.
Hence, the face.
C isn't like me. She thinks stability and control and life at a steady comfortable beat. In her wildest dreams I doubt she craves anything more than a husband, two kids and a house to keep them, and she's already half-way there. In response to The Face I tell her getting engaged at 21 is like leaving the party at 9.30pm. She sniffs, offended, and says she'll let me grow old over her garage. I laugh.
I think about all the things that I want to do, about the travel and the people and the experiences. I think about Bali and the Americas and all the tiny European towns. I think about this war that will never end, about teaching English, about falling in love. I dream all through clocking out and getting changed and going home.
Now my father calls. He's in Zurich on business and drunk. He complains about his gout and I make the appropriate noises in response. We talk about Syria and he tells me I'm just like my sister. I'm lighting a cigarette and he thinks he's upset me, we say goodbye.
Sometimes I think nobody else thinks the way I do. Sometimes looking at everything around me I find so much beauty in the world I feel still. I want to love someone so much I feel airless without their touch, I want to feel so passionately about something that I wouldn't be afraid to fight for it, I want to find a peace inside myself so profound that I can no longer hear the voices inside my head. I want life, I want to feel alive. I want sweat and love and joy and the raw and rare euphoria of sunlight on eyelashes.
But now, I'm just saying hi.
My roommate, lets call her C, does this face regularly. Every time she encounters the washing machine, for example. I would describe it as similar to the expression on a dogs face when playing fetch and you've feigned throwing the ball; head cocked slightly to one side, ears raised, confused and suspicious eyes. I think this over while she's giving me this face.
We are sat opposite each other on Table 1, folding napkins. We're both waitresses at a family restaurant; think Wetherspoons without the budget prices, it's closing time and we're working through our sidework in a comfortable silence. The rush of caffeine, stress and demanding customers is dying down and through the therapeutic rhythm of menial closing tasks I started to think, out loud. Words rolling out of my mouth as smooth and freely as raindrops down a window, about the 9-5's and 5-9's and this place and this life. About cold mornings and payslips and tip-outs. Counting cash like we're counting the years of our existence, while being tired all the time.
Hence, the face.
C isn't like me. She thinks stability and control and life at a steady comfortable beat. In her wildest dreams I doubt she craves anything more than a husband, two kids and a house to keep them, and she's already half-way there. In response to The Face I tell her getting engaged at 21 is like leaving the party at 9.30pm. She sniffs, offended, and says she'll let me grow old over her garage. I laugh.
I think about all the things that I want to do, about the travel and the people and the experiences. I think about Bali and the Americas and all the tiny European towns. I think about this war that will never end, about teaching English, about falling in love. I dream all through clocking out and getting changed and going home.
Now my father calls. He's in Zurich on business and drunk. He complains about his gout and I make the appropriate noises in response. We talk about Syria and he tells me I'm just like my sister. I'm lighting a cigarette and he thinks he's upset me, we say goodbye.
Sometimes I think nobody else thinks the way I do. Sometimes looking at everything around me I find so much beauty in the world I feel still. I want to love someone so much I feel airless without their touch, I want to feel so passionately about something that I wouldn't be afraid to fight for it, I want to find a peace inside myself so profound that I can no longer hear the voices inside my head. I want life, I want to feel alive. I want sweat and love and joy and the raw and rare euphoria of sunlight on eyelashes.
But now, I'm just saying hi.
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